Severed Destinies

by David Kimberley

  “Tell me whats on your mind,” Kithia said, squinting at the candlelight.

  Arelya placed the candles on a bedside table. “You went to the barracks today to see your brother?”

  “Yes, and Khir.”

  “I was with father recently and he had to stop at the barracks to deliver a message. I saw your brother.”

  “Good for you. I hope he was polite.”

  Arelya laughed. “I didn’t speak to him. I just saw him from afar.”

  Kithia was waiting for her to continue but grew impatient. “So what did you want to ask me?”

  “Oh yes. I wondered whether you might introduce me to Gorric one day soon?”

  Kithia smiled. “I see. What are your intentions?”

  Arelya rolled her eyes. “I just thought he was…nice.”

  “Nice?” Kithia realized how different she was to this naïve girl, despite only being a year older. “A cake is nice. A walk in the sun is nice.”

  Arelya looked away as her face reddened. “I just wanted to meet him.”

  “Of course I’ll introduce you,” chuckled Kithia. “Just remember that he can be a little dim sometimes so use short words when speaking.”

  Arelya gave her a shocked look, then shook her head. “I’m sure he is very clever.”

  “Well, if you discover that he is not what you hoped, I have three other men I can introduce you to. Khir, Rynn and Varayan are all…nice.”

  “I thought that you and Rynn…I mean, you spend a lot of time with him.”

  “Rynn?” It was Kithia’s turn to look shocked. “He and I have become good friends since we first met but that doesn’t mean anything more.”

  Arelya brushed her long black hair away from her eyes. “Sorry. You just looked very close.”

  Kithia shrugged. “He is an acolyte of Ardan. I doubt he would find someone with as much fire as me of interest.”

  “Really?”

  “Yes, why?”

  “Its just that I’ve seen the way Rynn looks at you…mostly when you are looking away.”

  Kithia was momentarily lost for words. “I think you must be mistaken.”

  The two sat in silence for a while, both lost in their own thoughts. Eventually, Arelya cleared her throat and gave Kithia an embarrassed smile.

  “Shall I leave you to sleep?”

  Kithia was surprised by her own answer. “No. Stay and talk some more.” It had been a long time since she had someone to talk to about things such as this and it took her mind off what she had been through. “So tell me what you really think of my brother.”

  Varayan darted across the rooftops, enjoying the rush of adrenaline as he leapt narrow gaps between buildings. Occasionally, the sloped rooves proved difficult to move along but he would slow down and place one foot in front of the other along the apex before breaking into another steady run. His footfalls were almost silent and he remembered the exhilaration of when he used to do the same back in Ashgar.

  He stopped his run, looking out over the magnificent city before him. From the roof of this particular house amongst the noble district, he could see across most of Vylandor and as far as the ships moored in the harbour. He breathed in and smiled to himself. He had missed the freedom he once had.

  In one of the streets below, he heard the unmistakable sound of boots clicking on the stones as a guard patrol wound its way across the district. He reached into his pocket and produced the money purses he had cut from unsuspecting belts earlier in the evening.

  “Better hide you when I get back,” he said outloud. “Now, which way is Jolas’ house?”

  He scanned the sleeping city and, when he was satisfied in which direction his temporary home sat, he moved off again. Ahead, in order to reach Jolas’ estate, he would have to traverse a network of buildings which were only separated by alleyways. It looked like an easy route but, as he headed for them, a drop of water hit his face. Within moments, rain was steadily beating down on Vylandor and his path was looking much more treacherous. He slowed his pace so as not to slip.

  As he danced across an alleyway, looking down into the shadowy drop, he stopped on the apex of a roof with the balance and grace of a cat. Through the sound of the rain, he thought he had heard something out of place, as if a boot heel had struck a roof off to his right. He stared into the night, squinting as water dripped into his eyes.

  Then he was off again, moving as quickly as possible towards the next gap between buildings. He glanced over his shoulder as he leapt, feeling as if someone else was up on the roof with him, but he saw nothing. As he landed, he turned back to his intended route. Ahead of him, something moved and he skidded to a halt as a dark figure landed before him.

  “How lucky that I should be leaving this city along your route,” came Saroth’s voice from within the pitch black of his hood.

  Varayan crouched before him, blinking in surprise. “You?” was all he could utter.

  “Your footfalls were loud enough to wake the dead,” the assassin said, unsheathing his curved blade and long knife. “I simply could not pass up the opportunity.”

  Varayan looked around him but the roof they stood upon was sloped on either side and behind him yawned the alleyway gap, which now seemed wider.

  Suddenly Saroth darted forward, blades slashing the air towards Varayan. With no time to consider his actions, Varayan dropped to his right, sliding down the wet roof. As the edge rushed up to meet him, he leapt forward and flew across an alley to land heavily on the slope of an adjacent roof. He immediately slipped backwards, sliding on his front. As he plunged over the edge of the roof, his fingers caught the rain gutter and he found himself dangling by one hand. As quickly as he could, he grabbed the gutter with his free hand and looked around for Saroth. The assassin was nowhere to be seen but Varayan knew he would be close.

  Noticing that the wall to his left jutted out slightly, he swung his way along the gutter until he could place a foot on it. He was at the corner of the building and, looking up, he saw that the roof had a flat section which supported the gutter. Nimbly, he pulled himself up and balanced on the narrow section then leapt for the apex, managing to grab hold. As he raised himself up and tried to catch his breath, Saroth appeared out of the rain ahead of him. The foreigner was moving with such speed that Varayan was stunned he did not slip with every step.

  With a painful cry as his strained muscles complained, Varayan stood and moved as fast as he could away from the assassin. Every gap he leapt was no barrier for Saroth though, who never broke his stride and was closing the distance. As he landed after another leap of faith, Varayan instinctively crouched and a blade sliced the air where his head had been. Saroth was upon him.

  With the muscles in his arms and legs burning, Varayan summoned all his strength and sprinted across another apex, throwing caution to the wind. The rain was hitting him so hard in the face that it was nearly blinding him. He looked over his shoulder and saw Saroth pulling his arm back to throw the long knife. The edge of the apex approached and Varayan flung himself forward, hoping to avoid the knife but land safely enough. However, Saroth had not thrown the weapon and was instead standing on the rain-soaked roof with a look of disbelief on his face.

  In his desperate attempt to escape, Varayan had been too panicked to look where he was running and had not realized they were approaching a courtyard which acted as a junction for the alleyways. He had thrown himself into oblivion and Saroth watched the young rotian fall helplessly, his body smashing into the cold stones below.

  For a moment, Saroth wondered whether he should go down to ensure his intended victim was dead. However, a guard patrol appeared at the edge of the courtyard and approached the broken body. Sheathing his blades, Saroth retreated into the night.

  In the courtyard, one of the guards gave a cry as they discovered Varayan lying face down on the stones.

  “Is he alive?” one of them asked as another stooped to examine him.

  Seeing the blood oozing out to mix with the puddling rain
water, the guard looked up at his colleague. “I very much doubt it.”

  Chapter 28

  Balthus breathed in the sea air as he joined Sephonis atop the temple.

  “You called for me, high mage?”

  Sephonis stood facing out towards Boraila and Balthus could tell by his sagging shoulders and bowed head that his mentor was weary. However, he was not certain whether it was weariness of the campaign taking its toll or whether the link with the Dar’ota was beginning to have an adverse effect.

  Sephonis straightened his robes and turned to face the invoker. “We have news.”

  Balthus studied the high mage’s gaunt face for a moment, noticing how his skin seemed almost translucent; veins clearly etched across the ashen features.

  “I heard that Saroth had returned from the Rotian capital. I trust he brought us good news?”

  Sephonis gave a weak smile. “Indeed. He returned with news that the king, Afaron, is on his way north with an army of three thousand soldiers. He plans to send most of this force to the bridge east of Turambar whilst he heads to the settlement opposite the fortress.”

  Several questions instantly flew into the invoker’s head. “What importance does the settlement hold?”

  “It is an excellent vantage point from which they can look upon Turambar and gauge whether we have men there or not. Plus, they can scout the area to ensure we have not crossed the river. They do not know whether we have ships sailing inland either.”

  “Is it not rash for a king to split from the main force?” Balthus asked.

  “Afaron will take precautions before heading to the settlement,” replied Sephonis, a hint of impatience in his voice. “Have you learnt so little about these people in your time here?”

  “Apologies, high mage.”

  Sephonis sighed. “Afaron will send scouts ahead to ensure the settlement is not under our control. We must be certain that he feels it is safe enough to walk right in to its centre. Once Afaron and his men are in the settlement, then we strike.”

  “You mean to kill their king,” stated Balthus. “Not capture him.”

  “A kingdom without a ruler will be easy to take. His death will cause the Rotians to falter and hesitate, giving us the opportunity to invade the south. If Afaron were captured, they would fight on with added resolve knowing he was still alive.”

  “How can we ensure he walks straight into the settlement?”

  Sephonis’ grey eyes narrowed at the question. “I will show you. Follow me.”

  Balthus watched the high mage walk past him and head down the stairs. With a glance up at the overcast sky, the invoker moved after him.

  As they made their way through the corridors of the temple, Balthus found that he needed to ask another of the questions. “High mage, why does the king only have three thousand men with him?”

  “The rest of the Rotian army has been split across the kingdom,” Sephonis said, never breaking his stride. “They are gathering at the city of Ashgar to await further orders.”

  “And what of the soldiers who march to the bridge?”

  “You are aware that Draliak has taken a large contingent of men and left the city?”

  Balthus flinched at the sarcasm in Sephonis’ words. “Yes, high mage. So the commander will engage the rest of the Rotian force.”

  “Indeed. He has been relishing the chance to meet their soldiers in a true battle. He was growing frustrated with the brief skirmishes under cover of night.”

  “Where will Saroth be during these imminent battles?”

  Sephonis came to a sudden halt and spun to face Balthus. “He will be our key to success. Actually, he asked me to deliver one piece of information to you.”

  “I do not understand,” frowned Balthus.

  “During his visit to Vylandor, Saroth encountered one of the young rotians who had escaped you in Barentin. It was by luck only that their paths crossed but Saroth said that, in his desperation to flee, the rotian fell from the rooftops.”

  “He is dead?”

  “The distance he fell was sufficient to kill any man. To survive such a fall would have been unlikely. Unfortunately, Saroth could not confirm his demise.”

  Balthus allowed himself to smile. “Which one was it?”

  “He believed it to be the one who gave you that scar.” Sephonis turned and headed away once again.

  The invoker’s smile faded as his initial pleasure in hearing of the incident was replaced by envy. He had hoped to some day encounter the rotian who had embarrassed him so in front of the Shada-Kavielian soldiers. The flames of hatred burning within him still remained but eventually they would diminish.

  As he began following Sephonis once more, he tried to imagine how the young Rotian had felt as he plunged to his death. The thought as to why he had been prowling the rooftops of the city did enter Balthus’ head. As Sephonis had said, Saroth encountering him was indeed lucky.

  Balthus followed Sephonis until they came to a door familiar to the invoker. It was the one which had only been opened recently to allow the Rotian prisoners to be taken below the temple. Many times he had passed it and occasionally he would stop and listen, trying to make out the desperate pleas for help from beyond. There had been none.

  “I had not planned to show you what was beyond this door yet,” Sephonis said to him. “However, I need you to understand our plans now, especially with our campaign moving into the next stage shortly.”

  Balthus glanced at the door. “I know that the prisoners are being kept below, high mage.”

  Sephonis gave a wry smile. “That is true. Keep an open mind, Balthus.”

  The high mage flicked his wrist and the door shuddered then opened. As they both stared into the darkness beyond, Balthus felt an unexpected fear tightening in his stomach. Finding the sensation unnerving, he looked back at Sephonis to find the slate grey eyes watching him with interest.

  The high mage gestured towards the doorway. “After you.”

  Afaron leant forward in his saddle as he watched the soldiers march past. The Vylandor cavalry had already ridden by and were disappearing along the road to the north. The armour from the line of approaching infantry shimmered in the afternoon sun, resembling a monstrous metal snake winding its way through the kingdom.

  They had been heading north for five days. In another two, they would approach the Ulmerien and Afaron would head for the settlement as planned. His scouts had been sent ahead and he was anxious for their report. Travelling for so many days had given him time to contemplate all of his decisions but, after he began doubting his own orders, he had pushed such thoughts to the back of his mind and was now focused once more on how best to save his people in the north of the kingdom.

  A rider approached from the north. Afaron patted the neck of his strong white steed and turned to meet the soldier.

  “What is it, Ilkar?”

  “The men were wondering where you were, sire,” replied the corporal, bringing his horse to a halt.

  “Checking I hadn’t fled into the countryside more like,” Afaron said in jest. He had come to like Ilkar and had quickly realized that the man was skilled enough to have killed several of the invading soldiers and to have escaped capture. Of course, the latter had been down in no small part to Gorric and his companions. However, Ilkar was the most experienced soldier amongst the number now moving north and Afaron was glad to have him by his side. It must have been difficult for Ilkar to agree to accompany them but the corporal seemed in high spirits. If he was reluctant to return north, he certainly did not show it.

  Ilkar nodded towards the soldiers. “These men have been trained well. They are ready to do what they must to protect the kingdom.”

  “Your reports on the foreign soldiers have helped. They now know who they face to a degree. Of course, there is still speculation amongst the men as to who these invaders are and how they have so easily taken the north.”

  “Sire, Turambar would have stood firm but some of their number have unnatural a
bility. The fortress was infiltrated so quickly and silently that magic must have been involved.”

  Afaron grimaced. “The mere thought of facing those who have harnessed the dark arts makes my skin crawl. At least the Skardans only told stories of their abilities. These foreigners have already been seen using their talents.”

  “With all due respect, sire, it was only one man who wielded such ability according to Gorric and the others.”

  “Yes, and that one man managed to splinter the supports of a building with a gesture. I expect that they have more magic-users hidden away.”

  “There was the man I saw outside the temple in Boraila,” said Ilkar, casting his mind back. “Green robes and strange grey eyes. He may have let his soldiers do the fighting but I had a feeling that he held great power.”

  “I recall you mentioning him before,” nodded Afaron. “I can only imagine what happened in Boraila but for them to take the city so fast must have meant they were inside before Vohlkern and his men could react.”

  Ilkar saw the distant look in Afaron’s eyes. “You fear for the other cities?”

  “Yes. If they can take Boraila as they did then what would stop them doing the same to Vylandor?”

  “The likes of Toresin and his men, sire,” replied Ilkar. “No disrespect meant towards Vohlkern but Toresin is more experienced and Vylandor is three times the size of Boraila.”

  “That’s why I like you, Ilkar. You are an optimist.”

  They sat and continued watching the soldiers until the men at the rear of the line had almost passed.

  “You chose not to wear the new armour offered then,” stated Afaron suddenly.

  Ilkar shook his head. “Do you wish me to change, sire? This armour has been like a second skin during my time at Turambar and I was pleased that the blacksmith in Vylandor could repair the damage it sustained. I wish to face the invaders bearing the same armour as before. I owe it to Sarin and the men who died defending the fortress.”